“Now, gimme a word, any word, and I’ll show you how the root of that word is Greek. Okay? How about arachnophobia? Arachna, that comes from the Greek word for spider, and phobia is a phobia, is mean fear. So, fear of spider, there you go.” – My Big Fat Greek Wedding
I’m the type of girl for whom roughing it is staying in a hotel that doesn’t offer room service. That’s going to be significant later on.
The other morning I hopped into the shower to begin what I like to refer to as my extreme beauty regimen (that’s not true. I’ve never, not once, referred to it as such. I just made that up now.) It’s a grueling 30 minute process that involves stuff like cheap shampoo and a really old hairbrush and makeup brushes from Costco. So. I hopped into the shower, and as I was doing my swirly twirly thang, I noticed a spider crawling along the edge of the shower.
I don’t do spiders.
Spiders in the shower remind me of camping, and I don’t like camping. Don’t tell Husband this, though. I spent a lot of time convincing him it made sense that we register at REI when we were engaged because I love the outdoors, don’tcha know. In the end, he remained unconvinced, probably because he took one look at me and thought, “This woman is lying to me.” In which case, he was absolutely correct.
It took until late in high school before I quit screaming every time I saw an arachnid. I suppose it was a partial understanding that they weren’t actually going to inject killer venom into my tiny frame, instantly murdering me, and partial not wanting to kill Dad with a heart attack. The man could run through our house lightning fast. And to be fair, I do pretty well around all sorts of insects (aside from cockroaches…seriously I saw my first last summer and the experience made me want to lay down on the floor and just DIE I tell you.)
This one time, a dead spider fell from the ceiling onto the manuscript I was so carefully copyediting.
That kind of traumatized me.
But this particular shower inhabiting spider was different. It was into running and jumping, which I fully support if you are a four year old child, but to which I turn my nose up if you are a venomous beast attempting to share my shower space. Shower space is sacred, man. It also turned out to be the Spider-Man of spiders, with this creepy ability to stretch its legs out REALLY FAR to move around. Basically it reached out and touched me, I’m pretty sure.
Husband didn’t do much to help, I’m sorry to say. He’s lucky I didn’t discover his cavalier attitude about shower spiders after we were married and sealed for forever or else I might not have entered into this blessed union. (That is totally and entirely untrue, btw.) It was clear I was going to have to tackle this particular obstacle alone, so I did the only rational thing I could think to do — I skipped washing my hair, jumped out, took a picture, and then smashed the thing dead.
I come from a family that believes in spider relocation. I kind of strayed that morning.
But, as you can see, this was the sort of spider that DIDN’T NEED TO KEEP LIVING:
This picture was neither edited nor enlarged (aside from, you know, fixing the color levels and contrast). The spider was actually this enormous in real life.
Later that evening, as Husband was hugging me, he took a couple sniffs and said, “Uh…yeah…” which translated means, “Your hair smells dirty.” But I think we can all agree that if he’d gallantly saved me from the wretched entrapment I found myself in that morning, my hair would have been super fresh and clean.
Like a summer’s morning or something.